The neighing troop, the flashing blade,
The bugle's stirring blast,

The charge, the dreadful cannonade,
The din and shout are past-

Nor War's wild note, nor Glory's peal,
Shall thrill with fierce delight
Those breasts that nevermore may feel
The rapture of the fight.

Like the fierce Northern hurricane
That sweeps his great plateau,
Flushed with the triumph yet to gain,
Came down the serried foe-
Who heard the thunder of the fray
Break o'er the field beneath,
Knew well the watchword of that day
Was "Victory or Death!"

Full many a Norther's breath hath swept

O'er Angostura's plain,

And long the pitying sky has wept
Above its moldered slain.

The raven's scream, or eagle's flight,
Or Shepherd's pensive lay,

Alone now wake each solemn height
That frowned o'er that dread fray.

956056A

Sons of the Dark and Bloody Ground! Ye must not slumber there,

Where stranger steps and tongues resound Along the heedless air.

Your own proud land's heroic soil

Shall be your fitter grave;

She claims from War his richest spoil—

The ashes of her brave.

Thus 'neath their parent turf they rest,
Far from the gory field;

Born to a Spartan mother's breast
On many a bloody shield.

The sunshine of their native sky
Smiles sadly on them here,

And kindred eyes and hearts watch by

The heroes' sepulchre.

Rest on, embalmed and sainted dead!
Dear as the blood ye gave!
No impious footstep here shall tread
The herbage of your grave;
Nor shall your glory be forgot
While Fame her record keeps,
Or Honor points the hallowed spot
Where Valor proudly sleeps.

Yon marble minstrel's voiceless stone

In deathless song shall tell,

When many a vanished year hath flown, The story of how ye fell.

Nor wreck, nor change, nor Winter's blight,

Nor Time's remorseless doom,

Can dim one ray of holy light
That gilds your glorious tomb.

-Theodore O'Hara.

GOD, THE ONLY JUST JUDGE

T

HEN gently scan your

brother man,

Still gentler sister woman; Tho' they may gang a ken

nie wrang,

To step aside is human;

One point must still be greatly dark,
The moving Why they do it;
And just as lamely can ye mark
How far perhaps they rue it.

Who made the heart, 'tis He alone
Decidedly can try us;

He knows each chord-its various tone,
Each spring-its various bias;
Then at the balance let's be mute,
We never can adjust it;

What's done we partly may compute,

But know not what's resisted.

-Robert Burns.

T

FATE

WO shall be born the whole wide world apart,

And speak in different tongues, and have no thought

Each of the other's being, and no heed; And these, o'er unknown seas to unknown lands

Shall cross, escaping wreck, defying death,

And all unconsciously shape every act, And bend each wandering step to this one end

That one day out of darkness they shall

meet

And read life's meaning in each other's eyes.

And two shall walk some narrow way of

life

So nearly side by side, that should one

turn

Ever so little space to left or right, They needs must stand acknowledged face to face.